


and she lets the river answer that you've always been her lover

by hihoplastic



Series: DW Tumblr Prompts/Reposts [13]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:41:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not unusual to be propositioned by the resort guests.  It happens at least once a week, much to his chagrin—always with a drunken smirk and a well-placed tip, like he can be bought for an extra few pounds.   But there’s something different in the way she’s asking, the teasing lilt to her voice—like she knows, like she’s mocking <i>them</i>, not him, and while he has very little doubt she would and could eat him alive if so inclined, there’s something else.  Something deeper.  He’s been here a year, and become an expert in recognising sadness and shame—it rolls off people here in waves.  Bad business decisions, complicated affairs—but it’s different, with her.  Darker.  There’s a caution in the way she moves, an edge to her voice that he’s never heard before, and it makes him curious.  Draws him in.  </p><p>He intends to say no.  Intends to turn her down flat and go back to his business and forget all about the strange encounter, but instead what he blurts out is, “I don’t even know your name.” </p><p>Her expression softens, like it’s one of the most heartfelt things anyone’s ever asked her.  Moving back toward the bar, she holds out a hand.  “River,” she says.  “River Song.”</p><p>Without thinking, he shakes her hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- for akittenatemycouscous on tumblr, who requested "river/doctor - a visit to the seaside, a wild beach somewhere or a resort...or both!"  
> \- THIS GOT ENTIRELY OUT OF CONTROL.  
> \- title from _suzanne_ by leonard cohen  
>  \- much love to pam who listened to me whine about this for ages and helped edit and was generally just splendid.

He’s wiping down the bar when she walks in, sunglasses perched on her nose, a flowery dress that bares her shoulders to the cool sea air. She’s not that different from the other guests—lithe, beautiful, rich, most probably, going by the jewelry—but she’s alone, and that’s enough to make her stand out. 

He watches as she looks around the empty lounge, gaze narrowed over the thick frames. She looks a bit lost, and he tries not to roll his eyes; guests are constantly wandering into the bar, looking for the pool house or the golf course or any number of resort offerings. Bracing himself to be belittled by yet another well-to-do bird on hols, John slaps his towel over his shoulder and reaches for a drink, which she’ll undoubtedly demand. 

They always do. 

“Hello, sweetie.” 

John starts, nearly dropping the glass, and looks up. She’s right across from him, sunglasses removed, and offers him an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry—didn’t mean to startle you. I was looking for—”

John huffs, and tries not to be entranced by her accent, far removed from the Americans that usually visit; an accent that matches his own. “Pool’s around back, take a right; beach entrance is down the main road about two blocks; registration’s in the building next door; spa’s on the third floor of the first complex; and concierge service is 24 hours, just put in a call to the front desk.” He slides a drink across the bar. “Apple martini.” 

The woman blinks, then cocks her hip and smirks. “Impressive.” She doesn’t reach for the drink. “Though I was looking for the library.”

John’s head shoots up. “The library?” 

“You know, those old buildings with lots of books? Maybe a couple chairs, a couch if you’re lucky.” 

She’s mocking him. Typical. “We don’t have a library.” He turns his back, straightening the bottles on the first shelf so all the labels face out.

“Oh.” She sounds so disappointed, he almost turns around. “I thought—” She stops, and he stills, waiting. “Never mind. I’m sure there’s one in town.” She starts to leave, and he can’t stop himself. 

“It’s quite far,” he says grudgingly. “You’ll have to wait for a taxi.”

“Is there a bus?”

He frowns. “It’s a long ride.”

“I don’t mind.”

John hesitates. “It’s not very safe.”

The woman quirks an eyebrow. “The bus?”

“The library,” he corrects. “It’s in the dodgy end.”

She chuckles, warm and throaty. “I think I can manage,” she says, and for some reason, he believes her. 

Still. “It’s a bad idea. I’m sure if you talk to the front desk, they can get you whatever you need. Five stars and all.” 

A wariness flickers across her face, so quickly he’s sure he imagined it before she shrugs. “I could do with the outing. This place is a bit...”

“Hoity?” 

“Stifling,” she offers, and he blushes. “But that, too.” She pauses, head tilted while she considers him. “What time do you get off?” 

He chokes. “Sorry?”

She rolls her eyes. “Off work, though that could be arranged, if you’re a good boy.” She bats her eyelashes at him, and he looks away, flushed. “You could show me around.”

John glowers. “I’m a barkeep, not your tour guide. I don’t jump when you snap.” 

She laughs. “Oh, I’m sure we could change that,” she murmurs, low and sultry and John shifts, unimpressed by his body’s response. “But that’s not what I meant.” He frowns, and the woman sighs—a bit condescending, but also amused, and sympathetic. “You look bored to tears, sweetie. What do you say we get out of here a bit? You could show me your ‘dodgy end.’”

He’s sure the pronoun slip is intentional, and he opens and closes his mouth several times. 

It’s not unusual to be propositioned by the resort guests. It happens at least once a week, much to his chagrin—always with a drunken smirk and a well-placed tip, like he can be bought for an extra few pounds. But there’s something different in the way she’s asking, the teasing lilt to her voice—like she knows, like she’s mocking _them_ , not him, and while he has very little doubt she would and could eat him alive if so inclined, there’s something else. Something deeper. He’s been here a year, and become an expert in recognising sadness and shame—it rolls off people here in waves. Bad business decisions, complicated affairs—but it’s different, with her. Darker. There’s a caution in the way she moves, an edge to her voice that he’s never heard before, and it makes him curious. Draws him in. 

He intends to say no. Intends to turn her down flat and go back to his business and forget all about the strange encounter, but instead what he blurts out is, “I don’t even know your name.” 

Her expression softens, like it’s one of the most heartfelt things anyone’s ever asked her. Moving back toward the bar, she holds out a hand. “River,” she says. “River Song.”

Without thinking, he shakes her hand. Her skin is soft and cold, and he has the sudden urge to warm her up; to find out if she’s cold everywhere. Blushing, he pulls back quickly and clears his throat. 

“John Smith.”

“Seriously?”

“What?”

She smirks. “Just...it doesn’t fit. Too common.”

He shrugs. “I’m a common bloke.”

“I doubt that.” Turning away, she moves toward the door. “Scotch,” she says, hovering in the exit.

“Huh?”

She nods toward the untouched drink. “I drink scotch. Good scotch, mind, not this rubbish.” She waves a hand toward the bottles behind him. 

He swallows. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She nods once and flashes him a final smile. She’s gone two seconds before his brain kicks in, and he hops the bar and runs after her. 

“River!” 

She pauses, looking over her shoulder. 

“I, um. I’m done at four. If you—I mean, if you’re still interested, I could, uh. Show you my dodgy end.” He turns scarlet and stammers. “ _The_ dodgy end! The library.”

The smile that blooms across her face is the most stunning he’s ever seen. 

\--

She shows up outside the bar a few hours later, changed into an oversized sweater and dark pants, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. Her shoes are practical, and she’s carrying a large bag over her shoulder. 

He doesn’t drive—isn’t nearly coordinated enough—so they hop the bus toward town. She gives him the window seat, and he doesn’t miss how her eyes scan the passengers as they enter and exit at various stops. 

He tries to ask her about her life, what she’s doing on a tiny island beach resort by herself. “No husband, then?”

“Oh,” she breathes, “I don’t do weddings.” 

He’s disappointed, though he doesn’t know why. 

She asks him about work, his life; for a reason he never quite identifies, he finds himself admitting that he was a doctor in London, the best, but he lost one patient too many. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s more than he’s told anyone else. 

“You ran,” she says, but it isn’t accusatory. 

He shrugs, fiddling with the ring he keeps in his coat pocket. “They tell you not to get close to your patients for a reason. It doesn’t end well.” 

“I’m sorry,” she offers, squeezing his hand. He’s surprised she doesn’t pry or judge, only smiles gently, like she _knows_ , and then leans back in her chair with a smirk. “Doctor Smith,” she says, as if testing the words. “Much better.”

“Oh, I don’t use—”

“Well I’m not calling you John.”

He snorts. “So it’s what? Doctor or ‘sweetie’?” 

She grins. “Exactly.” 

\--

He takes her to the library, shows her around town; they walk along the pier, and she tells him she’s originally from Florida, but moved to the UK when she was very young. 

“I studied there,” he says, and they compare stories, complain about the weather, but also how much they miss dreary London days in autumn. She’s intriguing—not like anyone he’s ever met. She’s a sharp tongue, a quick wit, and she keeps him on his toes. He likes it. 

They eat dinner at his favourite restaurant, a small hole in the wall that serves strange concoctions, and he feels comfortable enough to order his usual—fish fingers and a side of custard. He expects disgust, but she just teases him, a fond, far away expression on her face. 

“So what about you, then?” he asks, sipping tea after their plates have been cleared. “What brings you to our lonely isle?” 

River shrugs. “Maybe I’m lonely.” 

He scoffs, and she arches an eyebrow. 

“Sorry,” he says, “I just find that hard to believe.”

“Oh?”

He blushes. “Well, you’re, you’re—you know. Quite the catch.”

She smiles, but it’s a pale imitation of earlier, and he reaches across the table for her hand. 

“Sorry,” she says, quickly straightening and waving a hand. “Just—” She shakes her head. “I’m here on holiday. Needed to get away for a bit.”

“I understand,” he says gently, squeezes her hand, and pulls back. “So. You work?” 

She laughs, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s oddly endearing, and he warms at the sight. 

“I’m an archaeologist.” 

He sputters. “Archaeology?”

“Not a fan?”

“It’s complete rubbish! Digging around in the dirt all day, cataloguing every bit of pottery you find, however insignificant.” 

Rather than being offended, River leans back in her chair and studies him, tea cradled to her chest. “I haven’t found any bit of anything to be insignificant,” she says. “Every ‘bit of pottery’ as you say, every bone, every artifact—they all have stories. Maybe not earth-shattering ones, but stories nonetheless.” She shrugs, and flashes him a toothy grin. “Plus, I like getting dirty.” 

He chuckles. “I bet you do,” he murmurs, surprised not only by his own forwardness, but by the way her eyes darken before she quickly looks away and clears her throat. 

“We should probably be getting back.” 

John stands quickly and helps her into her jacket. “I live ‘round here. I can get you a cab back to the resort, if you like.”

“That’d be lovely, thank you.”

He smiles, and it doesn’t feel at all strange to take her hand and lead her out of the restaurant. 

\--

He jolts awake, breathing heavily as his eyes dart around the flat. His hands flutter over his own body, “Legs— _yes._ Arms—good. Chin—still the same.” He sighs, part with disappointment and relief. It was a dream, the same dream, though it isn’t getting any less nerve wracking. 

Rubbing a hand over his face wearily, John looks over at the clock. His gaze catches on a slip of paper, and he smiles, snatching it up and laying back on the bed with a smile. 

He doesn’t know how he summoned the courage to ask—he can’t remember ever being so bold (or bold in his book, anyway)—but he knew he couldn’t let her slip through his fingers. 

John lets his eyes flutter shut, small smile on his face, fingers curled around her number. 

\--

“No way,” says his co-worker, a thin, scruffy bloke named Arthur with a grating American accent. “Three days rule, remember?” 

John slides a drink across the bar and frowns. “Three days?” 

Arthur sighs heavily. “You can’t call a girl the next day.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll look desperate.” 

John scratches his cheek. “But—if I don’t call, won’t she think I’m not interested?”

“Not if she knows the rule.” 

John knits his brow in concentration. “But if she knows the rule, and I know the rule, isn’t calling on the third day basically like calling the first day, since it’s the first socially acceptable day to call?” 

Arthur blinks at him languidly. “What?”

Sloshing vodka over the side of the glass and earning a stiff glare from his customer, John tries to reign in his limbs as he talks. “I’m saying, if it’s a social construct in order to—to—ease the appearance of being ‘desperate’ or—or—”

“Needy?” 

John huffs. “Fine, ‘needy’—doesn’t it defeat the purpose of blokes saving face if the rule was implemented by men and women in conjunction? If she knows I’m going to wait three days, minimum, and then I call on the third day, it’s precisely the same as calling on the first day, except that I’ve lost three days! And during those three days, what if she meets someone else? Or—what if she goes home or loses interest or decides my chin is too massive or meets a buff American—or an _Australian?_ ”

Arthur pauses, towel slung over his shoulder. “Have you _ever_ been on a date?” 

John scratches the back of his neck and looks away. “‘Course I have. Must have done,” he mumbles. “And I never said I wanted to _date_ her—she’s nice. I want to hang out.”

Arthur makes a sound between a hiccup and a snort. “ _Hang-out?_ ” 

John straightens defensively. “Yes. What’s wrong with that?” 

Arthur sniggers. “Dude, just admit you want to bang her. I’m not gonna judge.”

John sputters, and this time really does knock a drink over onto the bar, nearly into someone’s lap. He apologises profusely, all the while glaring at Arthur. 

“I do not want to—to—to—” He lowers his voice. “ _Have intercourse with her._ I barely know her! I mean, not that she’s not—I mean, she’s—her hair and her face—and her _eyes_ —” Realising he sounds a bit swoony, John backtracks. “But we just met!” 

“ _Intercourse?_ Oh, Mr. Smith, how jolly good of you to come to tea,” Arthur mocks, adopting a fake, terrible British accent and holding his finger under his nose like a moustache. 

“Shut up,” he grumbles, while Arthur continues to half-laugh, half-wheeze next to him. 

“God, you’re a riot,” he says. “ _Intercourse._ ” He slaps John on the back. “Good luck, dude. You’re gonna need it.” 

John’s face burns, and he can hear Arthur snickering. Rubbing furiously at the bar, he wills away the blush. “I’m just saying—”

“Yeah, it’s ‘not about sex.’ Sure. I get it.”

John looks up at him hopefully. 

“It’s _twu wuv,_ ” he sighs, clutching his hands to his heart. Dropping the facade, Arthur snorts. “Dude, I’ve known you for six months and not once have you even looked at a chick. Let loose once in a while! You need to release some tension.” He grips John by the shoulders and shakes him. “Besides, you said she was older, right? She’s probably just as desperate as you are. You know how these housewives are—wanton and unsatisfied and just looking for a bit of the ol’ John-stick to clench their—”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” he snaps, turning on Arthur with a glare. 

Arthur backs up and raises his arms mockingly. “Ooh, gonna defend her honour, Smithers?”

John seethes, turning away to take an order, purposefully keeping his back to Arthur as much as he can. He likes Arthur, he does—when he’s not being disgusting and brainless. 

“I bet she likes it rough,” Arthur says, suddenly right behind him, breathing in his ear. “All kinds of kinky fantasies just waiting to be filled by the cute virgin bartender. I bet if you asked _real_ nice she’d let you spank her into—”

With more force than John remembers having, he turns and shoves Arthur as hard as he can, causing him to stumble back into the counter behind the bar, bottles rattling. 

“I said enough,” he warns lowly. “Speak about her like that again, and I’ll report you to management.”

Arthur laughs. “Ooh, management. I’m so scared.”

“I’m sure they’d be interested to know all about your extracurriculars with the patrons’ wives, not to mention your smoking habit.” He gives Arthur a pointed look. “And I don’t mean the cigarettes.” 

Arthur stiffens. “Like they’d care.”

John arches an eyebrow and reaches for the phone. “Shall we find out?” 

There’s a long, steely silence. John knows this was the only gig in town Arthur could get, and only because he’s that good at it. Every other bar turned him down, even the seedy ones. It helps having an uncle in high places. 

Finally, Arthur backs down, looking away. “You’re a real fuck, you know that?” 

John shrugs. “Better than a cad.”

Arthur sneers, but doesn’t say anything else, and John relaxes slightly, turning back toward the next customer, and chokes. 

“River!” 

“Hello, sweetie.” She smirks, a knowing look on her face, and John pales. God, he hopes she didn’t hear them. More for her sake than his, and stumbles over a greeting, flashing a nervous look at Arthur, who appears to be shamelessly leering at her from the other end of the bar. 

“Hi—hi. I mean, hello. I was, um. How are you? I was going to call you, but there was a rule—I think I’d have called anyway, but I was working, and now you’re here! So, what can I get you—no, wait, scotch, right? I have some in the back, I’ll just go grab it and—” 

“Sweetie.” She covers his hand with hers, her smile gentle and warm and he feels his face flush for entirely different reasons. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I guess, I mean, how long have you been...um…?”

“Long enough,” she says, and he winces. “To know a real gentlemen from a prat.” She throws a disgusted look in Arthur’s direction. 

“He didn’t mean it, really, he’s just, um…” 

“It’s all right, darling. I’ve heard worse.”

John stiffens. “From whom?”

River laughs, shaking her head fondly. “Going to put them in their place for me?” 

There’s something in her expression, a sweetness there that makes him feel like rubber. “Would you let me?” he blurts, then tries to backtrack, but River just smiles broadly, leans across the bar and kisses his cheek. 

“Not a chance, sweetie,” she says. “I’m afraid you’d get hurt.”

He pouts at that, but knows she’s teasing, and without thinking he turns his palm up, curling their fingers together. 

She starts, staring at their hands as if she can’t quite believe it, then slowly pulls away. John tries not to shudder at the trail of her fingers over his skin. 

“So. What brings you here?” 

“Besides a drink?” She arches an eyebrow, and John jumps to get her a scotch. He knows he looks silly, but he doesn’t care. It makes her laugh as he trips over his legs, though from the end of the bar, he hears Arthur snort. He listens intently as he quietly locates the bottle and a glass. 

“Problem?”

“Seriously? Him?” Arthur says, and John winces. 

He can hear the tension in River’s voice, however, and he smiles at that. “What’s wrong with my—with John?”

“Have you even seen him? I doubt he even knows where to put it.”

“And I suppose you do?” 

“I know all the places, sweetheart.”

“And how’s that? So small you missed the first time?” 

John chokes back a laugh and does his best not to slosh liquor over his hand. Before Arthur can return the barb, he slips out of the back and hands her her drink, delighted when she lets her fingers linger over his. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs. 

River looks up at him in surprise. “For what?”

“Defending my honour.”

River purses her lips. “I’m not sure I so much defended yours as insulted his.” 

John shrugs. “Works for me.”

She smiles, and John shifts down the bar to help another customer, his gaze constantly flickering back to her. For her part, River doesn’t take her eyes off him, and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He gets wrapped up in serving people, the after-lunch crowd bustling in. He keeps expecting River to grow bored and leave, but she waits, nursing her scotch and scribbling in a worn, blue leather book. She’s drawing, it looks like, though he can’t see what. 

When he finally gets a chance to move closer, she shuts the book before he can see anything and returns it to her bag. 

“So you never said,” he realises, scratching his neck. “Why you came in. Besides the drink.”

“I knew you wouldn’t call me. Not today, at any rate.”

“I would have!” 

“You’d have chickened out, sweetie,” she says, and though he blusters, he knows she’s right. 

“So you came to see me?” He lights up at that, and River smiles. 

“I was wondering if you’d like to grab coffee after your shift.”

“I would love—”

“Not a date,” she interrupts, and though her voice is gentle it’s also firm, a no-arguments tone he’s heard before, though he can’t place where or when. She looks hesitant, almost, like he might change his mind, and John grins reassuringly. 

“I would love to.” 

The smile that blooms across her face is stunning. “Good.” Gathering up her things and sliding a bill across the bar, she stands. “Meet you back here at…?”

“Nine.”

“Perfect.” She moves to leave, then sidles down the bar. “Oh, and Arthur?” 

He looks up at her warily. 

“You were right about one thing.” Leaning over the bar, she about near shoves her cleavage in Arthur’s face, and John watches, half amused and half jealous as she reaches out a finger and trails it over Arthur’s cheek. “I do have several… _very_...kinky fantasies.” 

Arthur gulps. “Yeah?” 

She hums, breath ghosting across his cheek. “None of which will ever involve you.” 

Arthur’s gaze jolts up from her breasts just in time to watch her turn and saunter out of the bar. 

John can’t wipe the grin off his face for the rest of his shift, and if Arthur’s rather, well _uncomfortable_ for the remainder of his, John figures it’s the best kind of karma.

\--

River visits every day for the next week, perching on a barstool mid-afternoon, nursing a scotch from the good stash he keeps in the back. 

He doesn't have many stories, so she tells him of her expeditions, her teaching career. Tells him things he wouldn't think you'd tell a stranger, but then she doesn't treat him like one. Her hand hovering, like she wants to be touching him always. 

He can't say he terribly minds. 

After work they take long walks on the beach, and he shows her the uncrowded areas tourists don’t know about. They sit on rocks and draw pictures with sticks, and he’s surprised when she draws a woman’s face, surprisingly good for lines in the sand. The woman looks strangely familiar, but he’s seen a lot of faces over the last year. They blend together. 

“Who’s that?” he asks, and she starts and stares at the picture, as if unaware what she’d drawn. 

She hesitates, lip between her teeth for a long moment before she admits, “It’s my mother.” 

“Oh.” He shoves his hands in his jacket pocket, fingers curling over the ring there, to keep from scratching his neck. “She’s, uh. She’s very pretty.”

River smiles sadly. “She is. I never knew her.”

He inhales sharply at the admission. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I mean, it’s not all right, but, it is what it is. I was...separated from them as a child,” she says, stumbling slightly over her words. “Was in and out of foster care until I emancipated myself at sixteen. I keep looking for them.” 

He doesn’t know what to say. He forgets, sometimes, working here, that beauty doesn’t exclude pain. Reaching out tentatively, he puts an arm around her shoulder, surprised when she leans in instantly, curling into his chest. Her breath is warm against his neck, and he squeezes her shoulder, pressing a light kiss to her temple. 

She shudders, eyes squeezed shut, and they stay that way a long while. The wind blows the scent of her shampoo under his nose, and he can’t identify it, but it smells like home. 

It’s a perfect moment, until she stirs, and murmurs her thanks, and seconds later shoves a handful of sand down the back of his shirt. 

“Oh, why you—” 

She laughs, and he chases her across the beach, stumbling, until he catches up and wraps his arms around her waist and tickles her mercilessly until she begs him to stop. 

\--

They’re nearly inseparable after that. 

Weeks spent lounging on the beach, John gawking every time she strips down to her bikini, cheeks burning red when she makes him help her with the sun lotion. 

She sneaks into the bar during happy hour, distracting him from customers by sucking at her straw and licking scotch off her finger in a manner too obscene for words. 

They spend weekend afternoons at his flat, reading books aloud to one another. River teaches him about archaeology and ancient civilisations, and he tells her how to sterilise a wound and make a proper tourniquet. He shows her his inventions and creations—a computer he built with spare parts, a remote that turns on the kettle, and a small, metal robot in the shape of a dog that he talks to incessantly.

“So you’re a proper genius, then?” she asks, a teasing glint in her eye, and John straightens his bowtie proudly. 

She laughs at his terrible jokes and always helps him when he stumbles or drops something in his clumsiness. She’s an awful cook, nearly burns his flat down, and the one and only time she manages to coerce him onto the back of a rental motorcycle, she drives so fast he thinks his skin will fly off. She’s dangerous and soft, wild and calm, and she fits into his days as surely as she’d been there his whole life. 

She seems to know things instinctually: how he takes his coffee, which side of the table he prefers, what books he's read and films he'll like best. She talks about Africa like it's a place he's been, and he suddenly wants to go. With her. 

He wants to do everything with her, he finds.

He wants to tell her. 

Everything—his past, what brought him here, how she makes him feel. Weightless, like a balloon without a string or a bird on a gust of wind or other, childish metaphors that make him wince when he thinks of speaking them out loud. 

Even more strangely, he wants to _touch_ her. Bury his hands in her curls and taste the salty sweat on her skin and see what she looks like with her head thrown back and her eyes closed. He wants to do unspeakable things to her, and he can hardly reconcile the urge with his usual blasé approach to women and sex. 

It doesn’t make any sense, why her and why now and why he’s turned down every offer that’s come his way, but the one woman he wants doesn’t seem to have any interest. She looks at him so sadly sometimes, when she doesn’t think he’s paying attention. Like he’s not really there. Like he’s a ghost. Sometimes she looks at him so wounded, but he can’t for the life of him imagine anything he’s done or ever will do to cause this beautiful, precious woman harm. 

There’s something about her—the set of her shoulders, the curve of her lip, the careless way she brushes off any enquiring into her own life—that makes him want to protect her. 

She laughs when he tells her this, in a round-about, stuttering way on a warm afternoon on her balcony after a swim. She’s wearing a sarong and a large, man’s shirt and he couldn’t help bristle at that—if she’s with someone, back home, what is she doing with _him_? But then she smiles or teases him, that broken look in her eye and he can’t quite bring himself to care. 

_Maybe I’m lonely,_ she’d said. 

Maybe she needs a friend. 

“I can take care of myself, sweetie,” she says, but it isn’t reproachful. She sips an iced tea and smirks at him around the straw. 

John fumbles, his cheeks red from the sun and embarrassment. “I know. I didn’t mean—I just thought, you know. Sometimes you look—”

“What?”

He hesitates, searching for the right word, and finally settles lamely. “ _Sad._ ” 

River looks away instantly, and he can’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, or her expression behind the wide-brimmed hat she wears. He’d brought it for her from home, worried about her fair skin in the harsh sun, and she hasn’t taken it off since he placed it on her head with triumphant glee. 

Stammering, he tries to backtrack. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to cross a line, or, or, or pry or anything, I just—”

“No, it’s fine,” she says quickly. “I just...” She stops, and he can tell she wants to say something else, and he holds his breath. When she doesn’t respond, he buries his disappointment, steels himself for rejection, and stands up, tripping a bit over the chair, and offers his hand. 

“C’mere.” 

River frowns up at him. “What?”

He motions with his hand for her to take it. “Come here.” 

She stills, eyeing him carefully before slowly, so, so slowly, placing her hand in his. He instantly wraps his fingers around hers, afraid she’ll change her mind, and tugs her to her feet. 

“John, what are you—”

“Hush,” he says, and draws her into a hug. 

River stiffens, her whole body taught and she tries to step back, but he keeps his hold tight. It’s the first time they’ve been so close. For all her teasing and bravado, she keeps him mostly at arm’s length, save for the occasional touch of the hand, and he takes the moment to breathe her in, sure she’s going to shove him away. 

Instead, she relaxes slightly, drawing her hands up to rest on his shoulder blades. He waits, and finally she curls into him, tighter than he’d imagined, her face buried in the crook of his neck. She’s shaking, he notices, so he holds her closer and hums softly in her ear, some love song or another. 

Her breathing hitches, almost a sob, and she clings to him, refusing to let go even when he tries to pull back, to see her face. 

“Hey, you’re okay,” he murmurs, concerned and confused as he runs his hands up and down her spine. “You’re okay.” 

She nods, but doesn’t release him, and he wishes they could stay that way. That he could always be there for her. 

When she finally does step back, she laughs it off and covers her face and quickly disappears back into the hotel room, on the pretence of getting them room service. He doesn’t push, but can’t deny he’s disheartened when she returns, and acts like nothing happened. 

She doesn’t let him touch her that way again. 

\--

The nightmares are familiar, but they’re getting worse. More vivid and visceral. His boss says he needs a vacation, but John just shrugs. He’ll deal with them as he’s done for the past year, with a pot of coffee and a long shower and now, her. 

Her presence alone is enough to make him forget, even for a little while, everything he’s running from. 

He dreams of rain and fire and burnt plastic and museums. Statues falling into the ocean. Sometimes he dreams of a figure in the distance, shadowed, but no matter how far or fast he runs, he can’t reach them. Bright red hair and a white lab coat and he wakes up with the tang of copper in his mouth and without thinking, scrabbles for the phone. 

She answers on the third ring, and he can almost see her sleepy, confused expression. “Sweetie?”

He relaxes instantly at her voice. “Um. Hi. Sorry, I um—I didn’t mean to call so late.”

“What time ‘s’it?” 

John looks at the clock guiltily. “Erm. Three fifteen.”

He hears her sigh. “And you’re calling at this godforsaken hour why?” She’s not angry, but she sounds exhausted, and John feels all the worse. 

“N-nothing, sorry. I shouldn’t have called, I’ll let you go. Sorry, River.”

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he manages. “It can wait, just—go back to sleep.”

He starts to hang up when stops him. “ _Doctor._ ” It’s just a name, said in a firm, tired voice, but it brings down his defences instantly. 

“It was nothing, River. Just a nightmare.” 

He hears the shuffling of sheets, and when she speaks again, she sounds more awake. “What happened?” she asks gently. 

“I don’t—um, it’s just...I can’t really remember.” He feels terrible lying to her, but if he tells her about the dreams, he’ll have to tell her everything, and he isn’t sure either of them are ready for that. He sighs heavily and runs a shaking hand through his hair. “I just...wanted to hear your voice,” he admits, wincing in preparation for her scolding. 

There’s a long pause on the other end, and for a moment he thinks she’s hung up. “River?” 

“I was on a dig once, in Olduvai. It’s one of the most important paleoanthropological sites in the world, where we first discovered the transition from the Oldowan to the Acheulean.”

John frowns slightly and thinks. “Olduvai, that’s Tanzania right?” 

She hums an affirmative. “I was there as part of a graduate studies course. It was the first time I’d left England since arriving—well, if you don’t count my attempts to run away to Amsterdam when I was thirteen.”

John chuckles. “You tried to run away to Amsterdam?”

“Twice. But that’s not the story,” she teases. 

“What is?” 

She tells him about her first real dig, the blistering heat and sand and labour. About her professors and the other students who thought she was a cheater and a slag because she was smarter or quicker, and rumoured that she’d slept with the professor

“Did you?” he asks, gut tightening, and River snorts. 

“Of course I did. He was the best in the field. Mind, I slept with him after the course was over.” 

John laughs uncomfortably. “What was the point of that?” 

“He was attractive. And a real hound-dog, too,” she grins, and he’s not quite sure if her salaciousness is for show or not. 

She carries on, telling him about her first discovery, her great mistakes. Like the time she mistook a bit of pottery for a bone. She tells him about Tanzania, the local tribes, the faux-pas she made trying to learn their language and the joy of being asked to participate in a ceremonial dance. There are other things, he’s sure, but his eyes grow heavy as he listens, even as he strains to catch every word. 

He falls asleep, the phone tucked beneath his ear, and when he sees her the next day, blushes and stammers over an apology. 

But River shakes her head. “It’s all right, sweetie. Archaeology always did put you to sleep.” 

He’s not entirely sure he knows what that means, but he smiles, and doesn’t dream for weeks. 

\--

Two months after they first met, John makes her rent a car and drive them several miles from town with a picnic basket and a bottle of wine, so she can see the stars. 

Naturally, it’s overcast and slightly damp, and her hair is nearly unmanageable, but he thinks she looks lovely and he tells her so. River smiles, almost shyly, like she does whenever he pays her a compliment, and flops down next to him, neck craned to stare up at the shadowed sky. 

“Not quite how I wanted it,” he grumbles, pouring her a glass of wine. 

“Wanted what?” 

“Our anniversary.” 

River looks at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

“Two months to the day you sauntered into my life.” He giggles slightly and hands her her drink. “Thought we should celebrate.”

The smile on her face seems forced. “Of course.” 

Brushing it aside, John lifts his own glass of orange juice and clinks it against hers. “To friendship.” 

“To friendship,” she says, her face suddenly pale, eyes bright and she turns away, downing nearly the entire glass of wine in one go. 

John frowns and places a hand on her arm. “River? Are you all right?”

She shudders slightly. “Sorry, sweetie. Just—cold.”

“Oh.” He immediately shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around her shoulders. She smiles wanly, and he babbles, saying anything and everything he can think of to erase the look from her face. 

Eventually she calms, and though he wants to know, her shoulders are still stiff and he can’t bear to break the fragility between them. 

He’s so afraid of saying the wrong thing that he nearly jumps out of his skin when she speaks, despite that her voice is low and quiet. 

“Do you remember when I told you that I was separated from my family?” 

John nods, looking over at her with a frown. “Yeah, ‘course I do.” 

“That wasn’t...that wasn’t entirely true.” John turns on his side, facing her in the dark, and hopes that despite the low light, she can tell he’s listening. River pauses, takes a deep breath and then admits, “I was taken from them. Kidnapped,” she manages, “when I was about four. I was...kept for years, by someone...I still don’t know who. There was always a different face, I—” She shakes her head. “I was moved around until I was about twelve.”

John stares, wide-eyed, breath in his throat. “What happened?” 

She smiles dimly. “I was rescued. By the most unlikely of sorts—a neighbourhood boy. Total accident, really. He was looking for worms for a science project and saw my message scratched into the basement window. He went and got help.”

John fumbles, debating reaching for her hand. “I don’t know what to say.”

River shakes her head. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m just telling you because...because I don’t want to lie.” She looks up at him, and there’s just enough moonlight through the clouds that he can see her smile. “And I trust you.”

John nods, hope pressing against his ribcage, pushing outwards. “Thank you,” he murmurs, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing the back of it lightly. River nods stiffly and he releases her, letting her put the distance back between them. 

He feels like he should say something, anything, and grasps at the first thing he can think of. “So, the boy—are you—do you still know him?” 

“I do,” she says, a fond, wistful smile on her face, and John shifts uncomfortably next to her. When he’s silent too long, River looks over and laughs, slapping his chest. “Good lord, not like that! He was like my _father._ ” John can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief, and River giggles next to him. “Idiot,” she mutters. “No. Rory—he’s _still_ like my dad. He kept in touch with me, even when I was in the system, made sure I was all right. Him and Amy. They were best friends, married now. They looked after me.” She picks at a clump of grass. “I took Amy’s name when I emancipated myself. It was like having a family.” 

“That’s good,” he says, his voice thick, “That you had someone.”

River nods, then suddenly looks contrite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— _burden you_ or—”

“No, no. I’m—I’m glad you told me. I mean, not _glad_ because you shouldn’t have anything like that to tell, no one should, but that you thought I—that you trusted me with it—with _you_ —and—”

River hushes him with a finger to his lips. “Don’t hurt yourself, sweetie.”

He blushes. 

She’s given him so much, he realises—beauty, hope, stability in a world he wasn’t used to, and he feels like he owes her, somehow. Owes her something more of himself. 

So he tells her. 

Lying on their backs, his hand over hers between them, he tells her why he left London. 

“You lost a patient, you said.”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t—it’s not the whole story.” She says nothing, just watches him from the corner of her eye, and he takes a deep breath. “I was in an accident. Car wreck, a pretty bad one. I shouldn’t have been driving in the first place, I—” He swallows tightly. “I’d lost a patient, a woman...Donna. She was sick for a long time, and—you’re not supposed to be friends with your patients, but I couldn’t help it. I should have known, I—” He chokes on the words, and River turns on her side, laying a hand on his arm. 

Breathing steadily, he carries on, “I was upset, and went for a drive. It was raining, and I missed a curve, or something—drove right off a bridge.”

He hears her gasp next to him, and when he looks, her eyes are bright and wet. He smiles encouragingly. 

“I’m all right. I was lucky, considering. But I banged my head pretty good. The only...the only thing I remembered was Donna. Being a doctor. I remembered all my medical training, every procedure but I couldn’t...I couldn’t remember my name. It was on my license, of course, but it didn’t...it didn’t feel right.” 

“So you chose John Smith,” she breathes, and he knows she understands. 

“I ran. I didn’t know where to go, or—I panicked. Grabbed what was in my car and took off. Landed myself here.”

“That was dangerous,” she whispers, her grip tightening on his arm. “Anything could have happened.”

“I know. I know. I was—lucky doesn’t seem right, but. Fortunate, I guess. And I suppose I was a bartender for a while before, because when I interviewed here I knew everything. For a high-end resort, they didn’t ask many questions.” He tries to smile, but the look on her face stops him; the hand reaching for his cheek, brushing against his skin so, so gently. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she whispers, her voice thick, and he turns on his side to face her. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, grasping her hand in his. “Hey, I’m fine. See? Ten fingers, ten toes, and all the other bits, if you want to check.”

She laughs softly, but leans her forehead to his, like she’s breathing him in. Tilting her chin up with his finger, he meets her gaze, startled by the tears hovering on her lashes. “River.” She blinks, and the tears fall, and he swipes them away with his thumb and kisses her. 

Her lips are soft, slightly chapped from the windy coast; she tastes like chapstick and dust and something familiar, but he can’t place it. His hand curls around her shoulder and she threads her fingers through his hair, kissing him back, mouth opening under his desperately. 

He tugs and she follows, rolling on top of him as his hands fall to her waist. She kisses like she knows him, like she loves him, and he doesn’t understand but he knows her, too. Knows that when he slips a hand under her shirt and drags his nails lightly up her spine, she’ll shudder; that if he nips at a spot just under her jaw, she’ll moan. 

His hands curl in the fabric of her shirt, wanting but patient, and he breathes her name against her throat. “ _River._ ”

And then she’s gone, pulling away and staggering to her feet, curls in her eyes as she shakes her head frantically. “No. No, I can’t—I’m sorry, I—”

John stands quickly and reaches for her, but she steps away. “River—”

“I’m sorry. I’m—” She takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, John.” She’s never called him that, not once. It’s always ‘sweetie’ or ‘doctor’. “I think we should just—just be friends, yeah?”

The air leaves his lungs in a whoosh. 

“But—you and I, we—we—” He makes a kissy face, and she laughs brokenly, arms wrapped around herself. She looks so small in his favourite tweed jacket, so frail, and it’s never a word he’d think to associate with her. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—I can’t do this.”

He feels like his ribs have cracked, inward on themselves. “Why?”

She shakes her head almost violently. “Please, John, just—” She looks so desperate, her hand reaching for him and then withdrawing. 

“River, if you just tell me—”

“I can’t. You’re too—”

“What?” She looks away, and he crosses to her, arms on her shoulders. “Too what?” 

“ _Don’t,_ ” she snaps, jerking away from him. “You have no right to be angry with me.” 

He doesn’t. He realises it suddenly, like a punch to the throat. He can’t punish her for not returning his feelings. For not reciprocating. For not _wanting—_

“You’re right,” he manages. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” she murmurs, and he knows he’s forgiven. “I’d like to go back, though.” 

Nodding wordlessly, he gathers their things. River drives back in silence, and he keeps looking at her out of the corner of his eye. She lets him off at his apartment, and he hovers halfway out of the car. 

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

To her credit, she tries to smile. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

At least it’s honest. John nods and lets her go, watching until she’s out of sight. He stands forlornly outside his apartment for some time, until a cold wind rushes up under his shirt, and he shivers. 

He’d left his jacket with her. 

\--

He’s in the middle of mixing a drink when she sidles up, breasts pushed out, make-up flawlessly done, smile in place. John gulps. The woman eyes him hungrily, flirting passionately, reaching out a hand at every opportunity to touch his arm. He shoots the other bartender a begging glance, but receives no help. 

He can’t be rude, and he’s never been very good at firm denials, so he tries his best to just ignore her, but it’s a slow day, and she’s very, _very_ good, pouting if he doesn’t pay attention, throwing his lines back at him easily. She’s young, maybe mid-20s, and beautiful, he can’t deny it. Probably a genuinely nice person, but he isn’t interested and doesn’t know how to say he isn’t interested without hurting her feelings or getting himself sacked. 

The resort likes it when he flirts—they sell more drinks. 

But John has always been terrible at flirting the way normal people do. So far, in the year he’s been here, only River seems to understand. 

Still, the woman at the bar seems to find him at least endearing, because she leans over when he asks if she’d like another drink, and whispers in his ear. “Not a drink, sweetie.” 

John tenses. “Only River calls me that.” 

He doesn’t mean to say it, and the woman pulls back, surprised. “Who’s River?” 

_My everything,_ he thinks, and instead mutters, “A friend of mine.” 

The woman relaxes. “Oh. Well, I’ll just have to find another name to call you, then, won’t I?” 

“Look, ma’am—”

“Elizabeth.”

He swallows. “Elizabeth. I’m, uh, I’m...flattered? But I, um. I’m working, yeah? And I can’t, um, you know...”

She waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. 

“I can wait ‘til you’re off.” 

Elizabeth winks. John sighs. The door opens, and his stomach leaps into his throat. She’s back. It’s been three, long days without her, but she’s back, hesitating in the doorway warily. John beams, trying to put her at ease, and River smiles weakly and gives a little wave, like she always does. If Elizabeth notices, she doesn’t say. 

“I don’t usually do this,” she murmurs lowly, walking her fingers up his arm. “But I’m feeling a bit daring. So why don’t you meet me in my room—”

John starts and yanks his hand away. “Oh, um, I don’t think that’s—”

She stops abruptly. “Oh, of course. You’re probably not allowed in the resort, are you?” 

His face burns, but she pays him no mind. “That’s fine. We can go back to yours and—”

“Everything all right, sweetie?” His brain sends mixed signals of _thank god_ and _oh no_ , and he turns to River, giving her the best silent _please help me_ look he can muster. 

Elizabeth looks up from rummaging in her purse, then looks to John with a frown. “Is this your friend?” 

He nods. “River, Elizabeth.” He waves a hand at each in turn, unable to tear his eyes away from River. 

Elizabeth holds out a hand. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

River stares at her blankly before taking her hand. “Hello.” 

Elizabeth leans back. “I was just telling John here to meet me later.”

If he hadn’t been staring so hard he’d have missed it. River’s face contorts, just for a second, into one of anger, then staggering hurt, before relaxing again into one of serene ambivalence. She looks to John, and he shakes his head frantically, eyes wide, and while Elizabeth’s gaze is focused on River, flails his arms in what he hopes is a _please please get me out of this_ gesture. 

He breathes a sigh of relief when she smirks, message received, and turns to Elizabeth with a frown. 

“Oh. Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry.” She looks between the two of them, biting her bottom lip for show. “I need him tonight. He promised he’d be my date for a party and I’ll feel absolutely wretched if I have to go alone.”

John brightens at the idea of a _date._ “Really?” he asks, at the same time Elizabeth voices the same question. She looks at him in confusion, River glares, and he clears his throat. “Oh, right, yes, of course that...date...thing.” He gives Elizabeth his best penitent look. “Sorry.” 

Elizabeth shrugs. “Not a problem. I’m here all week.” 

John pales. “Right,” he mutters, scratching his cheek nervously. “Look, Elizabeth, um, you’re, you know, you’re lovely, really—”

“Thank you.”

“—and um, I’m sure you’re great, but I’m not, um, what I mean is I’m sort of, eh—” 

“My, you’re a rambly one, aren’t you? Mind, we’ll put that mouth to better uses later.”

“What? No, I, um, that’s not—”

“He’s not interested,” River supplies, and both Elizabeth and John look up at her, startled. 

“What?” 

River shrugs. “If he could spit it out, he’s trying to tell you that he’s not interested in sleeping with you.” 

Sliding off the barstool, Elizabeth folds her arms across her chest. “And I suppose he’s interested in _you_?”

John’s eyes widen, but River barely flinches. “No,” she says flatly, at the same time he wants to say _yes!_ “But he does have standards.” 

“River!” John yelps, at the same time Elizabeth gasps. 

“ _Excuse_ me?” 

“She didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, I did.”

“River!” He flails his arms uselessly. “You can’t just say things like that! I’m so—she’s sorry, River, tell her you’re sorry.” 

Elizabeth huffs, waiting, but River ignores her, turning to John with a scowl. 

“You always do this,” she snaps. “Get yourself stuck in these predicaments, expect me to get you out of them and then complain when I don’t do so by your standards.” 

John gapes, lost and flustered. “I’ve never—you haven’t—River!”

But she’s already leaving, halfway out the door before he comes to his senses. Hoping the counter, he barely remembers to bluster out a quick apology to Elizabeth and his co-worker before dashing out of the bar after her. 

“River! River, wait!” He catches up to her easily and darts in front of her, stilling her with hands on her shoulders. “River?”

“ _What._ ”

He takes a step back, stunned by the fury in her gaze. “I—I’m sorry,” he manages. “I didn’t think—”

She scoffs. “You never do, do you? I wonder what your _wife_ would say about that.” 

“My—?” 

For the first time, he realises she has his jacket in her hands. 

His jacket.

With the ring in it. 

A wedding ring.

 _His_ wedding ring.

“River—” She shoves the jacket into his arms and stalks away. John freezes for a moment, then runs after her. “River! River, wait, I can explain—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” She keeps walking, white-knuckled around her purse. 

“River, _please—_ ”

She stops suddenly, turning on him. “How long have you known you were married?”

“I—”

“Before the crash, married before the crash.”

John blinks, trying to summon the right words. “I—I always knew. I mean, I saw the ring on my finger and assumed—”

“You’re _married._ ”

He’s not quite sure why she keeps repeating it. 

“Yes. _No._ Yes! I mean, technically, but it doesn’t matter, it’s not—I can’t remember it, so I hardly think it counts.”

If anything, that only makes it worse. River’s jaw tightens and her face contorts, like she wants to cry. “And what about your wife?” 

“I—” John sighs heavily, shoulders slumped. “I know. I _know,_ River. It wasn’t right or fair but I’m not—I know, I know it’s wrong but I love—”

“ _Don’t,_ ” she gasps, backing away as if he’d struck her. “Don’t you _dare_.”

“River—”

She shakes her head and turns away, and this time he doesn’t follow her. 

\--

He doesn’t see her for several days. He looks for her, of course, checking her room, the beach, the pool, any place he can think of they’ve had moments that had felt heady. 

She felt something, he knows she did, but she’s running and he finds he’s running after her, unwilling to let her go. 

She turns up on the beach finally, and he stumbles across the sand to get to her. She doesn’t smile this time, and she looks ragged. John approaches carefully, with a tentative half-smile.

“Hello, Song.”

“John.”

He frowns. “Why are you calling me that? It’s not even my real name.”

She flinches. “Neither is ‘doctor’.”

“I like that, though,” he offers, trying to open her up. “And sweetie.”

She looks away.

“Hey. What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing. Nothing, I just—I’m going back to London.”

John stares. “What? When?”

“Tonight.”

“No. No, you can’t.”

“I need to get back. I got a call—a dig I’m needed on. I need to get ready.”

He hesitates, then blurts, “I could come with you.”

River winces. “No.” Uncompromising. Final. John shakes his head frantically. 

“Why not? Nothing’s keeping me here.” He gestures to the resort behind them. “You’re my only—” He can’t find the word. “Is this about...is this about the ring?”

She eyes him for a long moment. "You lied."

He drops his gaze. "I know. I'm sorry—"

"Not to me. To your wife."

"I didn't—" He sighs. "I know. I made a mistake, I should have..." He waves a hand in the air, but River isn’t having it. 

"What?"

"I don't know. Done something different. But River…” He steps closer and grasps her hands. “River, I don't remember her. _Nothing._ I don't even remember being married."

"You might."

"It's been a year.” She continues to stare at him, sceptical and wary, and he sighs. “I'm a doctor, River, and I know...this long...it's doubtful that I’ll _ever_ remember."

She nods, looking out toward the ocean. “Are you going to tell her?” 

John sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. It’s almost easier, this way.”

"Easier for whom?" 

John accepts the criticism. "I thought it would hurt too much," he admits. 

"I believe she could have coped." Her words are soft, but there’s an edge of pain there he doesn’t entirely understand. Something else, something more—the rigid line of her shoulders, the way her hands shake and fumble with her skirt. "You should find her,” she says finally. “End it for good.” She offers a weak smile. “No one likes to be left in the dark."

"And us?" John holds his breath. Everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever needed right in front of him, pulling away. 

"There is no us,” she whispers. "Not anymore."

"No. No, I refuse—” He shakes his head and reaches out, grabbing her arm to hold her to him. “Why? Why are you doing this? We were— _why?_ "

Meeting his gaze, River lets out a heavy breath. “Because I’m married, too."

He drops her arm, stung. “What? I thought you said—”

“I lied.”

John flounders for something to say. “But—why? Why would you lie about that?”

She shrugs, but it isn’t casual—it’s burdened, weighed down, and he wants to hold her as much as he wants to push her away. “Because he’s gone.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.”

“River—”

“I’m sorry, John,” she says, and though her eyes are wet, her voice doesn’t shake. “It’s—” She swallows tightly. “Just remember that I forgive you, okay? I do. But I can’t…” She shakes her head, and as she passes, presses her lips to his cheek. “Goodbye, sweetie.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

He wakes up in a cold sweat, dreams of headlights and smashed cars and a flatline and red hair. Flashes of blond curls and a warm kiss. 

Rolling over on his side, John stares at the nightstand for a long moment before he picks up the ring. A silver band still caked with blood from the accident. He’d torn it off his finger when he realised. 

In the dull light he studies it now, turning it over between his fingers. It’s simple, perfectly him, except for the inside engraving: _always and completely._ It seems too much, too heavy, but he must have been fine with it, to have worn it. And it is—it’s well worn, stained, the inside smoothed and clean. There’s still a thin, pale band of skin around his ring finger where it used to be, and he slides it on now, turning his hand in the light. 

He can’t blame her for running. A man who can’t even accept his own name. He’d run too, if given the choice. 

Curling onto his side, he closes his eyes, and falls asleep, ring against his cheek. 

\--

He goes to the library and looks through the microfilms and article databases every day after work. Every story about a missing girl from Florida. Every kidnapping in the UK. Every rescue. 

She hadn’t given him much to go on, but he finds it, two weeks later, eyes bleary as he stares at the screen. The date fits, the locations. It shows a young boy next to a thin, frail girl, and the caption reads _Local hero Rory Williams helps save kidnap victim._ It’s her, it has to be her, but her name isn’t River, it’s Melody. She wears the same haunted look in her eyes, staring down and away from the camera. Rory has a protective arm around her, his body tilted slightly to shield her, and he can’t help but smile at that. He looks like a little soldier, a guardian. 

An assistant comes over to help him when he gets his sleeve stuck in the copier, then sticks around after hours to help him find more sources. He doesn’t question the help, only accepts greedily, until it’s late and they’re both yawning and his eyes keep closing, head lolling against the screen. He’s about to shut his eyes—just for a moment—when the young girl—Sarah—lets out an excited squeak. 

“Got something!” she says. 

John nods blearily. “Read it?” he asks hopefully, dragging himself out of his chair to put on his coat. 

“ ‘ _Amy Pond,_ 27, fashion model for Vogue and actress on the BBC series _Starchild_ , announced her wedding yesterday to her longtime friend, Rory Williams.’ ” She reads on as they make their way toward the exit, reading the article word for word. 

John nods, barely hearing but grateful nonetheless, and snorts when Amy answers a particularly embarrassing question with too much detail. “Oh, Amelia,” he mutters. 

Sarah frowns. “How’d you know that?”

“Sorry?”

“How’d you know her real name was Amelia? I haven’t gotten to that bit yet.”

John stops. “You must have—”

“I didn’t say anything. But it says here— ‘ _Yeah, my legal name is Amelia, but only my best friend Mels ever calls me that, and only when she’s angry.’_ ”

John takes the paper from her, trying not to look too startled, bids her goodnight and hurries back to his flat.

He intends to pace, to think, to maybe do more research on his own laptop, but the moment he sits on the bed to take off his shoes, he can’t resist a bit of a lie down. 

“Five minutes,” he mumbles to himself. “Five minutes, Pond.”

\--

_Amy and Rory give her away at their wedding. It’s a small, non-traditional affair. He doesn’t have much family, and neither does she, but there’s enough love in the garden to burst. She’s smiling so wide, tears in her eyes, an off-white dress soft beneath his fingers. They bind their hands with the bow-tie he wore on their first real date, and exchange rings, each engraved._

_They spend their honeymoon in Egypt and North Africa. She works at the museum in London, him at the hospital. Between the sheets, she tells him stories of ancient worlds and false gods and lets him feel small—shares the burden when he loses someone too soon._

_Her hair tickles his cheek and she smells like chapstick and dust. He holds her when she wakes up gasping, nightmares teetering on the edge of consciousness—years worth of dark rooms always in the back of her mind, and he promises she’ll never be alone again._

_They have dinner parties and go to films and he never lets her near the kitchen—he knows how to cook and bake and mix drinks and she knows how to order out and they work often, both in love with their careers, but they come home to each other, curl on the sofa, rings clinking together as they hold hands._

_It’s River, but it isn’t River. It’s her face and her hair and her smile but she’s lighter, warmer. Her skin isn’t chilled against his own, not when he’s had so much time to run his hands over her arms and thighs and stomach; not when kisses follow his every trail._

 

\--

It hits him in the shower.

River Song wasn’t just _Melody_ , or Melody Song, or Melody Williams. He slaps his forehead when he realises the simple inversion, then stumbles out of the bathroom and rifles through the drawer for his ID. He hasn’t looked at it since the crash, barely glanced at it then, but it makes sense, suddenly, why the name sounded so familiar. 

_“I took Amy’s name when I emancipated myself. It was like having a family."_

Sinking onto the bed, John stares at the photo and the newspaper article he’d printed out. 

Amelia Pond. 

River Song. 

_Melody Pond._

His wife. 

John’s stomach clenches. 

_“Happy Anniversary.”_

_“To friendship.”_

_“It's doubtful that I’ll ever remember."_

_"Are you going to tell her?" "I don't know. It's almost easier this way."_

_“I can’t remember it, so I hardly think it counts.”_

He barely makes it to the bathroom before throwing up.

\--

He tries so hard to remember. 

Weeks turn to months, and every night he says her name or draws her face and tries to remember the life he had before; his life with her. 

It doesn’t take long at all to find her—she’s a professor at Oxford, and does research for the British Museum. Her name appears in dozens of articles online. 

He stares at the last name on his license, but it’s strange. _Pond._ His, but not his. Right, but wrong. It feels accurate, but looks strange, and he practises writing his name, mimicking the signature on the card. 

He finds himself writing her name instead. 

\--

_“No!” she laughs, swatting his shoulder._

_“Melody,” he whines, drawing out the vowels. He nuzzles his nose against her neck, hands drifting low._

_“I am_ not _taking your name.”_

_“Why not? It’s cool!”_

_“It’s cumbersome, my love. Besides, I’ve made a career under my name, I’m not about to change it up. I’d confuse all my ardent followers.”_

_He snorts. “What, the three students you manage per term?”_

_“Oi!” She laughs, and he kisses her throat. “It’s more than you have, Doctor.”_

_Shifting, he hovers over her, legs intertwined beneath the sheets, all her warm skin pressed to his. Taking her hand, he examines her fingers, holding their hands together to compare._

_“I’ve plenty of followers, thanks. The lives I’ve saved—” He says it dramatically, mockingly, but she kisses him quiet._

_“You’re worth it,” she murmurs. He smiles. “I’m still not taking your name.” He pouts, but she merely brushes her fingers against his lips. “I chose my name, sweetie. After the first people who loved me. I can’t give that up.”_

_“I know,” he says, tongue darting out to taste her skin. “I wouldn’t ask you to. Besides, it’s a bit old fashioned, isn’t it? Maybe I could take your name! Doctor Pond.” He grins. “I like that.”_

_“Sentimental idiot.”_

_He nods. “Your idiot.”_

_“Always.”_

_“And completely.”_

\--

He’s late one two many times, and the resort fires him. He doesn’t care. He remembers in dreams, and spends most of his time sleeping, or dozing on the beach, trying to catch the fleeting visions. 

He wishes River would come back. 

River. Melody.

He remembers the latter, but loves the former, and they’re separate entities in his mind. He wants to go to her, but it wouldn’t be fair, not yet, not now. Not when the pieces are still missing. 

He counts clouds and spins the ring on his finger, and tries. 

\--

_“Sweetie, this is Amy, and her fiance Rory.”_

_“Hello! You must be the Ponds!”_

_“Williams’, actually,” Rory corrects._

_He and Amy both snort, and say, “That’s not how it works.”_

_Behind them, Melody smiles._

\--

He remembers the first time she told him about her past. They’d been together nearly two years, casual on her part and head over heels on his. It was a fight—he’d pushed too hard, and she’d slapped him, then cowered away on instinct, like she expected him to retaliate. 

Of course, he hadn’t. She’d apologised, and he’d kissed her knuckles and she’d told him everything she’d never told anyone, and he was the one who cried. 

She’d done terrible things in her youth, she said—stole cars, robbed stores, picked fights. She’d been in and out of jail, running from her childhood in the wrong direction, and she might have kept running, she said, if it hadn’t been for Amy. 

It explained everything—the scars she never spoke about, the knife she kept in her bedside drawer. The gun in the cabinet, the second lock on her door, the tightness in her shoulders whenever it was dark. 

He remembers the change in her, after she’d told him—how wary she’d been for weeks, waiting for him to leave. To give up. 

_“Why would I do that?” he remembers asking. She shrugged. “It’s what people do.”_

_He’d taken her hands and held them to his heart. “Am I people? Do I even look like people?”_

_“No,” she’d murmured. “You look like an idiot.”_

He’d grinned and kissed her and three years later accidentally proposed and she’d accidentally said yes and Rory had pulled him aside at their engagement party (just the four of them) and reminded him he had a sword and took fencing and wasn’t above stabbing a doctor, no matter how renowned. 

Melody had giggled and tugged Rory away, assuring them both she could look after herself; but she pressed a lingering kiss to Rory’s cheek that made him blush, and he remembers being _happy._ So very, very happy. 

\--

_He’s vacationing on the coast of Spain, spread out on the beach, sunblock on his nose, building a house in the sand. Not a castle—he doesn’t want a castle. Just a little house, or a flat, and someone to share it with. Maybe a garden, though not a big one._

_When the tide rises to wash it away, he goes for a swim. The water’s warm and he floats for a while, day dreaming. He thinks of his patients, his dream house, of the faucet in his flat that needs fixing._

_He doesn’t notice the riptide until he’s pulled in, flailing, calling for help. He tries, struggles against the force but it’s too strong, and he goes under. There’s black, and grey, and white and colours and then he’s sputtering, coughing up water. A hand on his chest is comforting but cold._

_When he blinks up, there’s a small crowd around him, and a woman bending over him, hair plastered to her neck and cheek. She’s panting, glaring at him as she drags a hand across her face._

_“What the hell were you thinking?” she snaps._

_She stands, her shadow falling over him, and he struggles into a sitting position, lungs still tight._

_“Faucet,” he croaks._

_“What?”_

_“I was thinking about my sink. It needs fixing.”_

_“Rather your brain,” she retorts. He peers up at her. “You’re welcome.”_

_Clamouring to his feet, still wheezing, John studies her more closely. Her clothes are plastered to her skin, what looks like a business suit, and he can see her bra through the thin material. Gulping, he quickly averts his eyes to her face._

_“Thank you,” he manages. “Sorry about—” he gestures to her clothes._

_“It’s fine,” she says. “You can buy me a new suit.”_

_“I’m a doctor,” he says, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind, for some reason, then stammers. “I mean—sorry, I didn’t mean—”_

_“Is that supposed to be impressive?”_

_He can feel himself pouting. “It’s a bit impressive!”_

_He holds out a hand and gives her his name._

_She stares at it for a long moment, then slowly shakes it. Her fingers are cool against his. “Melody.”_

_He grins. “Nice to meet you, Melody.”_

_She sighs heavily, but it’s overdramatic. “Wish I could say the same,_ doctor. _”_

_He follows her back up the beach, completely oblivious to the crowd that slowly disperses as they walk. He discovers they’re staying at the same hotel; she’s there for a conference, and he bribes her with real tea as a thank you._

_He never does buy her a new suit, but for their first anniversary, he gives her a shell he found on that beach that sings the ocean._

\--

He wakes up in tears, her name a cry on his lips. 

_“Melody.”_

\--

He spends nearly all his money on a plane ticket to London. It isn’t fast enough, not nearly, and he spends the flight restless, aching in the knowledge that she’s at home, _their home,_ waiting for him. 

Or not. 

He can’t take back what he said, or what he did. He can’t erase the last year, much as he wishes he could. But he can’t move on, either. Can’t let her move on. He can’t let that day on the beach be goodbye, not when he _knows._ Not when he remembers. 

He’d contemplated calling her, or writing a letter, but it seemed too small, too distant for the surging emotion he feels—his love for her, and hatred of himself. 

He needs her back—his Melody, his River, his partner in every way that matters—so when he lands he goes straight to the museum, where he knows she’ll be. 

The guard recognises him immediately. “Doctor Pond,” he says, quickly countering his surprise. “Long time no see.” 

He nods, and swallows a lump in his throat. “Her indoors anywhere around?” 

The guard smiles fondly. “In the back, as usual. Shall I tell her—”

“No,” he says quickly. “It’s a surprise.” 

With a wink and a quick look around, the guard opens the door and allows him through. 

\--

“And what sort of time do you call this?”

She jumps, eyes wide as she presses a hand to her chest. “John—”

“You’re very clever, you know. I don’t often give you enough credit for being clever.” 

She swallows tightly as he advances, and takes a step back. “How did you get down here? Only museum employees have access—”

“I’m clever, too,” he says, smiling gently. “But you...” He whistles. 

She’s so tense. “What are you doing here?”

“I had a dream.”

“A dream?”

“Of time gone by.”

She rolls her eyes, relaxing slightly, but still on guard. He wanted to drag it out, wanted to see the realisation slowly dawn in her eyes, but she looks so sad, so tired and afraid, that he reaches for her hand, drawing it to his lips. She’s wearing her ring. 

“What are you—”

“I’m sorry.” 

“For what?”

“Forgetting.”

Her breathing hitches. A hope so fragile. “Forgetting what?”

Turning their hands, he shows her the ring on his own finger. "You.” He pauses. “My Melody.”

Her eyes fly to his and he doesn’t think she’s breathing. “Do you...?”

“You lied to me,” he says gently, pulling her in closer. “You are the marrying kind.”

She breaks, a sob torn from her throat and he kisses her, hands framing her face as he pours all the love and lust and remorse into the press of his lips, the slide of his tongue against hers. Her hands scrabble at his shoulders, pulling him tighter, her whole body pressed to his and he doesn’t want to breathe air any more, just her. 

“Forgive me,” he begs, clinging to her as tightly as he dares. “Please, please forgive me.”

“Sweetie?” she gasps, and he nuzzles her cheek with his nose. 

“I remember everything,” he promises, kissing her forehead and eyelids and lips. “Why didn’t you just _tell_ me?”

“I couldn’t bear it anymore,” she whispers. “You falling in love with someone else.”

He shakes his head. “Daft woman. I was falling in love with you.”

“But it wasn’t me. It wasn’t _us,_ I—”

“It _was,_ ” he insists. “It was you. It’s always you, it’s always been you, it always will be.”

She grips the lapels of his jacket tightly. “You left me. Like a book on a shelf.”

He kisses her again. “I know. I know, Melody, I— I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“I lost you.”

“You found me. Saved me all over again.”

“I missed you.”

“I love you.”

She kisses him, tears between their lips, hers or his or both. He brushes his thumbs over her cheeks reverently. “Hello, dear.”

When they part for air, she’s smiling, the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. 

\--

He’s immediately drawn to the large cardboard box in the living room. It wasn’t there before, and it’s out of place now. Credit card statements, phone records, her blue diary, the only thing she'd managed to keep as a child, open to a random page. There are photographs, blurry, of him, bartending at the resort. An article about the car crash with the missing driver. A letter from Donna's family, unopened. 

Melody hesitates in the doorway, watching as he sifts through the paperwork, her hands wringing together. 

"You did all this?" he asks, sitting on the edge of the sofa. 

She fiddles with her ring. "Most of it. I tried to hire someone, but they all said—" She stops shortly, and he looks up with a frown. 

"Said what?"

"Nothing."

He offers a hand, and when she takes it, tugs her gentle to sit next to him. She bites her lip, the way she always does when she's nervous, and he soothes a thumb over her wrist. 

"Said what, dear?" he coaxes. 

"They said—they said you'd left. It's a thing, apparently."

He snorts. "What? Husbands faking their deaths to leave their wives?" He expects a smile, an affectionate slap, but Melody looks away, and his heart breaks. "Oh, sweetheart." 

She offers a quick smile. "I told them it didn't add up. The money was still there, and there were no papers." He knows without asking that she means divorce paper, and he thinks of the men that would do this; thinks of himself a year ago, stumbling out of the wrecked vehicle, a ring on his finger, and running in spite of it. 

"I was a coward."

She shakes her head. "It's not the same," she say, but it lacks her usual ferocity. "I never doubted." 

He meets her gaze, desperate and unworthy. "Never?"

She squeezes his hand. "If you'd remembered, you would have come back to me." She smiles, and kisses his knuckles. "You did come back. That's what matters." 

\--

They talk quietly into the night, curled around one another in bed, and he draws patterns on her arms, her skin warm against his. 

She never stopped looking. Never gave up. She followed him to America, to the island, to the bar. But he knows—can see it in the new lines around her eyes and lips—how long the year has been. 

He holds her tighter, and wonders how she slept, alone in the dark. Who softened the nightmares. Who cooked breakfast. 

They've always been for each other—they have friends, some mutual, others not, but at the end of the day it's them, together, through everything. He hadn't known, sprawled out on his tiny bed in his tiny flat, but she did—in their too big house, their too big bed. 

He can tell by the way she clings to him, her voice low and soft. She's never been needy, never suffocating, but he knows from the years of her insecurities and fears, and he kisses her temple to soothe her nerves. 

"I'm okay," she murmurs, and he nods.

"You're amazing."

"Flatterer."

He taps her nose with his finger, and her eyes brighten, a smile over the tears. Every familiar touch, every habit, she's been without, and it makes him want to do everything all at once. 

For his part, he hasn't realised how loud his own thoughts had been, how punishing, until she slates her mouth over his, and everything goes quiet. 

His hands tangle in her hair and she shifts, her body over his, fingers gentle against his cheeks. 

"I'm okay," he murmurs when they part, because he knows she knows, now, and she smirks. 

"You're an idiot. And I'm never letting you drive again."

He chuckles. "You always did hate my driving."

"You leave the brake on."

"I do not," he grumbles, but only for show. It's old hat and comforting, and she snuggles into him, dropping a kiss to his chest as she tucks her head beneath his chin. 

\--

Amy sobs when she sees him. Throws her arms around his neck and cries and then punches him in the arm. 

Rory punches him in the face. 

He can’t say it isn’t deserved, but it hurts like hell, and Melody cleans the scrape with gentle fingers. 

“I _was_ going to do that myself,” she teases, though there’s a hint of truth in her tone. 

“You’d have every right.” 

But she shakes her head, and lays a fluttering kiss over the bandage. “There. All better.” 

He hopes they’re going to be. 

\--

She’d covered for him as best she could, but there are still questions he has to answer—from his boss, his friends, the police. 

“The police?” 

He runs a towel through his hair and watches as she carefully chops vegetables, her back to him. 

“I opened a missing person’s report,” she says. “I thought you might have been taken.”

He freezes, jaw slack, her words knocking the wind from his chest. 

“ _No._ ”

He says it so fiercely, so angry with himself, that she looks up, a frown marring her face. It smoothes into sympathy and regret. 

“I had to know,” she says softly, and he wraps his arms around her from behind, hating the way she stiffens for just a moment, unused to his touch, before settling into the embrace. He doesn’t blame her, but he can’t stand the look in her eyes—like he’s someone else, someone he was, for a while there. 

“I’m sorry.”

It’s for everything, and she covers his hands with hers. 

\--

It doesn’t even occur to him until they’re in bed one morning. He skates his fingers up and down her spine, tempting kisses along her shoulder. She stiffens, just barely, and shifts away from him. 

“I’ll make tea,” she says, grabs a robe and slips from the room. He has no right, but he suddenly wonders: it’s been a year, a year without him, and though they’ve always been monogamous—since their wedding, at least—she’d have no reason to stay that way. 

A lump forms in his throat. Someone else touching her. Holding her. Making her cry out. Someone else’s lips in places that are _his_ , and he climbs from the bed, hands shaking. 

He has no right. No right to know, no right to ask. 

He’s never been one for casual sex—it doesn’t make sense to him. His limbs have always baffled him, sharing intimate moments with a stranger sitting uncomfortably in his chest. It’s just who he is. 

It’s not his wife. 

Pulling joggers on over his boxers, he makes his way into the kitchen and watches as she boils water and sets mugs and milk and sugar on the table. She’s cut up fruit in a bowl. 

She’s lost weight since he’s been gone, and he knows part of it is from stress, part from not eating well. There are still packaged dinners in the freezer and a stack of take-out receipts in the desk drawer, and he thinks of her, coming home to an empty house, sitting alone. Going out with friends or colleagues and faking a smile. He thinks of her _enduring,_ and he feels sick. She’s done enough surviving for one lifetime. 

“I have to go up to the university tomorrow,” she says, pouring hot water into a teapot and setting it on the table. “Just for a few hours to meet with my grad students.” 

He nods and sits dumbly next to her. 

“Will you be all right on your own?”

He wants to laugh, because the question is absurd. They’ve always been fine, so long as they could return to each other. Instead, he forces a smile. “Yeah. Don’t worry.”

She bites her lip. “I’d cancel, but—”

He shakes his head. “No, no. I’ll be fine, really.”

She pours him a cup of tea, and they sit silently, spoons clinking against the porcelain sides. 

There’s a space between them that’s never existed before, and for the first time, he grasps for words.

\--

She wakes up screaming, and he barely has time to duck before the knife cuts through the air. 

“Mels! Melody!” 

He tries to grab her, but she jerks away, eyes wide and scrambles away from him. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“It’s me, sweetheart. It’s me. The ‘doctor.’” He says it with a small smile. “You’re safe. You’re safe, dear, I promise.”

Melody eyes him for a tense moment, and he can see the moment she truly wakes up. Recognition crosses her face and she lowers the knife slowly, her back still against the wall. 

“S-sweetie?”

He carefully climbs over the bed, sure to make every movement more pronounced. “I’m here.”

Shaking, she places the knife back on the dresser. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “It’s all right,” he murmurs. “Are you okay?” 

She nods shortly. “Fine. I’m going to—” She pauses to clear her throat. “I’m going to make tea.” 

He grabs her arm as she tries to pass, and she jerks, her whole body tense for a moment, until she recognises the soft caress of his thumb against her skin. 

“Come back to bed.”

“I’m fine. You can sleep, I’m just going to—”

“I’m here, Melody,” he murmurs, drawing her in closer. “I promise. I remember.” 

Hesitating, Melody nods, and he scoots back, leaning against the headboard. He draws her with him, coaxing her to lay down with her head in his lap as he rearranges the covers, draping them around her shoulders. 

Gently, he weaves his fingers through her hair and combs through it, strand by strand. He rubs her head next, her temples, the back of her neck. He hums a song—their song—the song he’d murmured in her ear on the balcony but hadn’t understood why. She gets migraines after her nightmares, he knows, and this at least does some good. 

He thinks about all the nights he’s been gone. The fear she must have gone through, every time she closed her eyes, and he hates himself. They’d made progress—her nightmares had lessened considerably over the years. She’d stopped sleeping with a knife, or at least put it in the bedside drawer. He hates the crash and he hates the amnesia and he hates his decision not to come home, to run away, to keep running, but mostly he hates himself, for not being half the man she deserves. 

“Stop,” she murmurs into his thigh. “I can practically hear your self-loathing.”

He smiles slightly. “Just what I deserve.” 

She curls her fingers over his knee. “Never.”

He doesn’t reply, and Melody doesn’t push. She whimpers slightly, and he eases off, brushing his fingers through her curls. “I’ve got you, dear,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

He feels her press a kiss to his thigh. 

\--

She’s distant, and he can’t blame her. 

The things he said, while she was his wife, but not—little things he knows now must have cut so deep. How she withstood it all, he doesn’t know, and he hates that she had to hide from him, all the damage, the damage _he_ caused, even unknowingly. There’s no excuse, no way he can ever take it back. Time can’t be rewritten, and all he can do now is pray that he’ll win her back, somehow. That she’ll stay. 

He starts with little things—getting up before her so he can bring her tea in bed. Bringing home vases of flowers. Touching her in small, careful ways, so she gets used to him again—a hand on her arm, a brush of his shoulder, a kiss to her cheek. 

He starts back at work again, amazed that they even let him in the building, but makes sure he’s around to cook dinner, and when he can’t, he always calls. It wasn’t like this before, he remembers—he’d work long hours and she’d stay in Oxford overnight and they might go days without speaking properly, but he owes her this, he knows. 

“You don’t have to try so hard,” she tells him once, when he brings home an expensive, first edition copy of her favourite book. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows the lump in his throat. “Neither am I,” he says, and hates the flicker of doubt. He wants to chase it away, but he doesn’t know how.

\--

They’re watching an old movie, neither paying much attention, when he finally summons the nerve. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

Melody looks up from where she’s been grading papers, on the other side of the sofa, and nods. 

He licks his lips and hesitates. “When you were...when you found me. All that time we spent together. How did you...cope?” 

She stills. “You mean, knowing it was you?”

He nods. “But not me.”

Sliding her glasses off, Melody fiddles with the frames, folding and unfolding them. She’s never been one for nervous habits, and the sight makes his heart ache. 

“It was...difficult,” she admits, parsing her words. “You weren’t _my_ …but you were. You were the same man. And it helped, for a while. Being able to see you, be around you, even though you didn’t know who I was.” She shrugs lightly. “And then it stopped helping.” 

“That night stargazing.” 

“Before that, really. That was just the tipping point.” She says it matter of fact, but her hands are quivering. “I thought,” she starts, then purses her lips and looks away. 

“Thought what?” he coaxes. 

Melody takes a deep breath. “I thought for a while that maybe you just hadn’t known. There’d be no record of it in the car—we’re not the type to carry photos or anything, and I assumed you’d just left it somewhere, since you take it off for work so often. Silly, really,” she admonishes herself. “I cleaned out your locker, and it wasn’t at home, so that meant—” She cuts herself off. “I guess I just always figured that if you’d known...you would have come home.”

“And then you found the ring in my jacket pocket.” 

She looks up at him with a steely gaze. “Why are you asking me this?” 

“Because I don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Why you don’t hate me.” 

Melody shifts, eyes downcast, and he knows what she’s going to say before she does. “I could never hate you, my love.”

He sighs, tugging a hand through his hair and stands up, pacing the floor. He can feel her eyes follow him, calm, stoic. It makes him even angrier. 

“Why not? After everything I put you through, why—”

“Because I love you,” she says. “I couldn’t stop just because you’d forgotten me. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I could have come back. I didn’t have to run away.”

Melody smiles sadly. “You always run, sweetie. It’s who you are.”

“Yeah, and don’t you think you deserve better?” he snaps. Melody winces, but she doesn’t look up, and all the anger drains out of his body. Her silence was always louder than her words, and he drops to the floor in front of her, a hand on her knee. “Melody—”

“If you’re going to leave, do it now,” she says suddenly, fingers white knuckled around her glasses. “Don’t draw this out for another year while you self-flagellate enough to come to the idiotic conclusion that I’m better off without you. Don’t you dare. I chose you and I will _always_ choose you and if you can’t respect that choice then at least have the decency to file for divorce before you go off and—”

He surges up, kissing her with everything he’s worth, hands tangling in her hair. It’s brutal and closed mouthed. She resists for a harsh moment before capitulating, her mouth opening under his and he eases off, morphing the kiss into something gentle and slow. They’re both panting by the time he breaks away, his forehead pressed to hers and his fingers wound tightly in her hair. 

She shudders, and though she still hasn’t touched him, her hands clasped in her lap, she licks her lips, and he kisses her sweetly again. 

“I hate you,” she breathes. 

“No, you don’t.”

She sighs heavily, and reaches up to curl her fingers around the collar of his shirt. “I want to sometimes.”

“I know.”

Slowly, he cups her cheeks in his palms, soothing his thumbs over her skin. 

“I’m thinking of ways to kill you right now.”

He smiles. “How many’ve you got?”

She swallows tightly and shudders. “Thirty-six.”

“Only thirty-six? You’re slipping, dear.” 

She laughs brokenly. “I love you.”

“God knows why.”

“Not even him.”

He leans back enough to catch her gaze. “Are we okay?”

Gripping his hand, Melody nods. “We will be.”

\--

He remembers the first time they slept together. It was rough, frenzied, her nails biting into his skin in contrast to his gentle touch. He tried to slow it down, but she was too wild, then—too intent on fucking rather than making love, and he let her. He enjoyed it, of course—found out things about himself he’d never realised. He liked biting and being bitten; liked the tracks her nails left over the next morning. Hiding hickeys and making her come so hard, her legs wobbled when she stood. 

The longer they dance around one another, the more he wants her. They sleep in the same bed, skin to skin, but she makes no move to touch him like she used to. 

He blushes scarlet, stammering over his explanation while Amy sits quiet and thoughtful across from him. Melody’s at the museum and Rory’s at work, and he turns to his friend, embarrassed and helpless. 

“It’s not—it’s not just the—the—you know.”

“Sex?”

He scratches his neck. “Yes. I mean, that’s—part of it, but it’s like—it’s like something’s missing.”

Amy looks at him sympathetically. “You were gone a long time.” 

“Did she—” he starts, but at Amy’s glower, shakes his head. “Never mind.”

There’s a long silence between them, before Amy sighs. “She’s not going to blame you, you know.” 

John looks up, brow furrowed. “For what?”

“If you slept with someone.” She shrugs, aiming for casual. “You were someone else, and didn’t _know,_ you know? She’d hardly hold it against you. It’s not in her nature.”

Despite her words, he shakes his head frantically. “I didn’t,” at the same time he thinks, _she might_. As far as he knows, Amy and Rory don’t know about ‘River Song’ and he has no intention of telling them. 

Amy snorts. 

“I _didn’t._ I’m not—I mean, I might have—have— _kissed_ —someone, but I didn’t—”

Eyes wide, Amy leans forward across the table. “You’re telling me you haven’t had sex in over a year?” 

Blushing furiously, John shakes his head. “It just...didn’t really...occur to me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course it didn’t. I should have known.” Leaning back in her chair, she picks up her drink and sips at it, face pinched in contemplation. “You guys really are made for each other,” she muses, and though he asks, she doesn’t elaborate. “You should tell her. I still don’t think she’d care, but. You should tell her. It’s kinda...” she hesitates, then finishes grudgingly, “sweet.”

He nods, and they change the subject. Rory comes home, and Melody picks him up and they drive home together in silence. He fumbles with the radio, but there’s nothing good on, so he stares at her profile and wishes he could brush away the age. 

At home he makes dinner, her favourite, and she tells him about her new students, and he asks her advice about dealing with a patient’s family, and it’s all very _civilised_. No teasing, no banter. She looks so tired, so he offers to clear the plates while she gets ready for bed. 

He finds her twenty minutes later, removing her makeup in the bathroom, and blurts it out.

“I didn’t sleep with anyone.”

Melody freezes, washcloth against her face, and stares at his reflection in the mirror. “What?”

John fidgets, but determinedly meets her gaze. “While I was gone. I didn’t have sex with anyone.” 

She huffs out a laugh and clears the rest of the soap from her face. “You don’t have to lie to me, sweetie. It’s fine.”

“I’m not lying.”

She rolls her eyes. “Honey, you’re incredibly sweet, but you’re still a _man._ I saw the women at the resort—half of them were practically throwing themselves at you. You really expect me to believe—”

“Yes. I do.”

There must be something in his voice, some timber or note that makes her stop and face him, arms folded across her chest.

“You’re serious.”

He nods, looking up at her through his fringe. She’s all lines, harsh and unwelcoming, and he keeps his distance across the tile floor. “I didn’t sleep with anyone,” he repeats softly. 

She frowns. “You almost slept with—”

“That was you.”

“You didn’t know it was me.”

“I think part of me did.”

“ _Don’t._ ” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter, sweetie, let’s just—”

“What?” He grabs her arm as she tries to pass him. “Why does it matter so much?”

She stares down at his hand, his ring bright against her skin. “It doesn’t.”

“Melody—”

“Sex doesn’t matter. But you said you—” She stops, and he turns, backing her against the doorway gently, a finger under her chin. “You fell in love with her.”

“ _You._ ”

“I’m not River Song. I made her up, I—”

“You made up the name, not the person. It was _you,_ Melody. You are River Song. Cheeky.” He kisses her forehead. “Intelligent.” Her temple. “Beautiful.” Her nose. “Obstinate.” Her cheek. “Warm.” He kisses her lips, drawing her in, relieved when her hands slide up to his shoulders. It’s a chaste kiss, sweet and sentimental, but he holds her hips with purpose over her robe, thumbs caressing through the thin material. 

“I’m not warm,” she whispers when they part. 

“You are when you’re with me.”

Her expression crumples, and she speaks without her consent. “Are you—”

“What?” he coaxes. 

“—happy?” Her voice breaks. “I don’t want—I don’t want this... _us_...to be—you were someone else. The man on the beach, it was you but it _wasn’t_ you, and I don’t want this to be... _predestined_ for you, or something you just...felt obligated to return to or—”

He kisses her firmly, open mouthed and messy, a growl in the back of his throat. “Don’t you _dare._ ”

“Sweetie—”

“Don’t you _dare_ , Melody Pond.” 

She shudders at his tone, possessive, and his body, hard against hers as he crowds her, no space between them. There are tears in his eyes—he can feel them burning, and she raises a shaky hand to his face. 

“My Doctor,” she whispers, though it sounds like a question, and he answers in a choked voice, 

“Yours. Always, yours. River Song.” She flinches. “Melody Pond.” He kisses her. “You’re the woman who married me. You’re the woman I lo—”

Dragging his mouth to hers, she tangles her fingers in his hair, grip tight enough to sting, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything except the feel of her beneath him, her nose bumping his. She pushes him backwards, toward the bed and he paws at the belt of her robe, tightening the knot in the process. She laughs breathlessly and he growls, hands sliding up her shoulders as he pushes the material to her waist where it catches. He doesn’t care. 

His mouth finds her shoulder and he trails kiss after kiss over her skin while she fumbles with the buttons on his shirt and his belt and the zipper on his trousers. She has him naked before he even contemplates removing his hands from her back to try her robe again. His lips trail down her throat, across her chest and over her breasts and she stills, then, head thrown back and hands around his neck, pressing lightly. 

It’s an awkward angle, but he can’t move, can’t draw himself away from her skin, teeth nipping at the underside of her breasts before drawing a nipple into his mouth. She moans above him and he smiles. 

She swats his shoulder weakly. “Bastard,” she whimpers as he moves across to her other breast, his hand cupping the one he’d abandoned. “Bed,” she hisses. “Now.”

He bites just a little too hard, and she cries out, the sound swallowed by his tongue as he surges up to meet her. Pushing frantically at the robe, he groans when it stalls at her hips, and she pulls back just enough to raise her arms for him to tug it over her head. 

Stepping back, he holds her at arms length, eyes drinking her in. Her ribcage is more prominent, her thighs a bit smaller, but she looks the same, the same as he remembers in his minds eye and in dreams, and he doesn’t realise he’s trembling until she gathers him in her arms, hushing him. 

“I’m here,” she murmurs, “I’m here.” And then, so quietly, “I didn’t either.” 

“Didn’t what, dear?” he asks into her shoulder. 

“Sleep with anyone,” she admits. 

He pulls back, trying to mask his surprise, but she merely shrugs, self-depreciating. “I’m just as shocked as you are, sweetie.”

He giggles, light and gleeful at her admission even as her undeserved loyalty breaks his heart. He’s always been selfish, and his hands roam her body now to prove it. “Mine,” he murmurs. “All mine.”

“Yours,” she agrees, and he grins against her lips. Walking her backwards, he stumbles, jolting them both onto the bed. Melody rolls her eyes, and he taps her nose with his finger. She catches his hand and kisses it. 

“Guess I’d better be amazing, then, eh?” he says as they manoeuvre toward the middle of the bed. Her breath hitches as he nips and licks down sternum, her stomach, her hip. 

“Yes, you’d better be,” she whispers, then, “ _Oh_ ” when he presses a kiss to her centre. “You don’t have to—”

“Want to.”

She wrinkles her nose adorably. “I haven’t shaved in weeks.”

He kisses her again, delighted when her body shudders. “Don’t care.” 

She nods slowly. Stalling, he peers up at her as she shoves pillows under her shoulders she she can see him better, cradled between her thighs. Settled, she brushes his hair out of his eyes, her touch so soft, and he turns his cheek into her palm before sliding down a bit further, tongue darting out to taste the inside of her thigh. 

He can hear her breathing, harsh and staggered above him, and he gently pushes her legs further apart. 

At the first taste, she’s sweeter than he remembers. His tongue light against her folds, exploratory. He wants to remember everything, every sound she makes, every tightening of her muscles. What makes her grip on his hair tighten. 

Shifting for a better angle, he presses a finger to her clit, hard, and smirks when her hips snap up. 

“Not funny,” she grouses. 

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he murmurs, the vibrations travelling up her spine. Running one finger along the sides of her labia, he dips his tongue inside, breathing her in, holding her hips with his other arm. 

Pulling back, he nuzzles her with his nose and licks his lips. “Have you been doing something different, dear?” 

Melody gasps and tugs warningly on his hair. “Ran out of fish oil.”

He pinches her clit in retaliation. “See? Cheeky.” 

She moans softly and he licks at her again, moving his hand up to rest below her stomach. “You taste different,” he murmurs. 

“Good different or bad different?” 

He slides his tongue inside her, then pulls out. “I like it.” He repeats the motion. “No more or less.” And again. “Just different.”

“God, stop talking.”

He smirks. “So demanding.”

“A _year_ , remember?” she says breathlessly. 

He hums. “Too right. Best get on with it, then.”

“Yes, you better— _oh, god._ ” Her threat evaporates as he slides a finger inside her, curling where he knows she likes. His tongue flits against her clit in patterns, words: _beach, safe, sweetie, love._ Gently, he pushes another finger inside her, groaning at the tight heat of her. She cries out when he draws the _m_ in her name, so he does it again and again until she’s panting, tight around his fingers. 

“Want you,” she gasps. 

“You will,” he murmurs, ignoring the tug on his hair. “But first—” He twists his fingers and flattens his tongue and her hips jerk, a cry torn from her throat, slick walls clamping around his fingers and he surges up, covering her mouth with his. Her hands scrabble over his back, nails digging into his shoulders as she raises her leg to hook around his waist. His palm presses firmly against her and she shudders, tearing her lips away so she can breathe. He takes the opportunity to kiss down her throat, fingers easing out of her as she comes down. 

“Hello,” he murmurs, wiping his hand on the sheets before brushing her hair back from her face. 

She smiles, lopsided and blissful, and mimics his action. “Hello.”

He giggles, just distracted enough that he flails when she rolls them suddenly so he’s on his back, her thighs tight around his and he moans when she moves over him. 

“Like that, do you?” she murmurs, repeating the motion. 

“A year, remember?” he parrots back. 

“So this’ll be over quick, then?” she teases, her hand sliding between them to grasp his length. 

Words stutter on his tongue at the feel of her warm palm, sliding, fingernails gentle against the base of his shaft. He doesn’t even bother protesting. 

“Too quick,” he agrees, hips jerking up. “ _Melody._ ”

She kisses him at the same time she sinks down carefully, hot tongue in his mouth, hot heat all around him, her palms sticking to his chest as she rocks. She hisses quietly, walls stretching to accommodate him, and he arches his neck to mouth at her breasts, his hands drawing soothing patterns over her ribs. 

“Take your time,” he murmurs. “Not going anywhere.”

She inhales sharply, raising up and lowering herself again, getting used to the pattern. He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Slow,” he warns. 

She whines against his lips, hips stuttering as he grasps her waist, halting her movements. 

“Sweetie—”

With a grunt, he sits up, drawing her legs around his waist. It’s better for her this way, he knows, and he wants to see her come again. Wants his face so close to hers; wants to kiss her through it and hold her—he forgets all that the moment she moves again, pleasure spiking and he rolls his head back. Her movements grow faster, their gasping louder—she kisses a trail over his shoulder, up his neck and across his cheek before pressing her forehead to his. 

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “Let go, sweetie.” 

“Want you—” he manages, and feels her fingers slide between their bodies. His arms tighten around her. 

“I forgive you,” she breathes, and he sobs, head buried in her shoulder as he comes. Everything’s white and hot then black and cool and when he comes to, she’s rocking him gently, humming in his ear. They’re still tangled together, and he can feel himself going soft inside her, but he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t ever want to leave the circle of her arms ever again. 

Everything feels so heavy, and it isn’t long before she’s pushing him down gently into the pillows with a fleeting kiss to his cheek. He tries to stop her as she goes, but she murmurs something reassuring, he’s not sure what, and she’s back before he opens his eyes again, a warm washcloth over his chest and between his thighs. 

“We should change the sheets,” she says, a slight smile on her face. 

“Later,” he mutters, dragging her back on top of him. “We can do everything later.” 

Melody chuckles, pulling the duvet up over them as she curls into his side, leg slung over his hips and her head on his chest. “Everything?”

He tightens his grip and presses a kiss to her hair. 

“Everything.”

\--

He takes her to the beach where they met, the exact spot in the sand where she kissed him back to life. At least, that’s how he remembers it. 

“Nostalgic idiot,” she murmurs. 

He taps her nose. “Your idiot.”

She smiles, and he giggles, and then lunges, tickling her sides until she’s shrieking, laughing; he picks her up and spins her around and she slaps his shoulder, breathless. 

“I hate you,” she gasps.

He grins. “No, you don’t.”

They stay a week and he brings her tea in bed, the same tea he’d thanked her with the first time. They walk the shops and he tunes out her words when she starts talking about fossils and antiques and just listens to the sound of her voice until he grows too bored and drags her to the carousel on the pier and makes her ride a narwhal with him “Because, Melody Pond, narwhals are _cool_.”

She tricks him into a shooting range and laughs until she cries when he starts so bad he falls at the first shot. She makes it up to him by pressing herself against his back and holding his arm; he won’t hold a gun, so he points his finger and pretends to fire and she whispers in his ear all the things she’s going to do to him later. He blushes and stammers and holds his coat over his groin as they leave, but he gets her back in the end—hungry kisses and warm skin and his fingers sticky with taffy stuck in her hair. 

At night they take a blanket down to the beach and stare up at the stars, and she tells him about Altair and Aquila and he tells her he thinks he’s always been her lover, just hers, and when she kisses him he breathes her name like a prayer.


End file.
